Helen
by Seiina13
Summary: My name wasn't always Helen. When I was born, I was Gabby. But when I turned four, my name was changed to Helen. Like Helen of Troy. For the obvious reasons. A more modern story of Helen of Troy. Songfic, but more fic than song.


**Sooo… contrary to common belief, I'm alive. Just lazy. **

**I wrote this, like, forever ago, but I just realized I've already typed it up and hence will take very little effort to complete.**

**I don't own this song or Greek mythology. Duh.**

**I apologize for any misspellings (especially French ones, bien sur)**

**Aaaaaaand, this is for Clara-wa. Always. Just because she's awesome like that. **

**::subliminal message: reviews appreciated::**

My name wasn't always Helen. When I was born, I was Gabby. But when I turned four, my name was changed to Helen. Like Helen of Troy. For the obvious reasons.

Helene

_Je m'appelle Helene_

_Je suis une fille_

_Comme les autres_

I'm beautiful. When I was young, I was "pretty." Now I'm older. Sixteen. And "beautiful."

I hate it.

Really, I'm just like anyone else. Just a girl. A pretty one. The pretty, teenage daughter of a rich businessman.

Helene

_J'ai mes joies, mes peins_

_Elles font ma vie_

_Comme la votre_

When I was twelve, I started modeling. My mother's idea. A good occupation for a girl as lovely as I, she said. But she doesn't care about me. She cares about herself. For Father, I'mm good business. For mother, I'm something to groom and train—to perfect. I have a little sister too. She hates me. I steal all the attention, she says. I wish I could give it to her.

So when I can, I go down to the stables; get out of the house. And I ride. So fast it hurts my face and my legs ache afterwards.

But then, I'm free.

In control.

Je voudrais trouver l'amour Simplement trouber l'amour

I'm a fanciful girl. I want to find true love. It shouldn't be too hard, right? Everyone knows me. Or, at least, of me. There must be someone out there who could love me.

_Helene_

_Je m'appelle Helene_

_Je suis une fille_

_Comme les autres_

But it's not like I'll ever get the change. My life is controlled. Totally and completely. Helen the puppet. Joy.

Helene

_Si mes nuits sont pleines_

_De reves de poemes_

_Je n'ai rien d'autre_

Sometimes I lie awake at night, in my bed, thinking about my namesake. Helen of Sparta. Later, Helen of Troy. The most beautiful woman in the world. "The face that launched a thousand ships." Songs were written about her. Her adventure. Her love. Her will.

We're alike, she and I. Pretty. Puppets. But just girls, really.

Je voudrais trouber l'amour Simplement trouber l'amour

Queen Helen was sold off to by her father, the king, to the highest bidder. I probably will be too. That's life.

She found love. (After she was married off, of course) But hey, it's possible, right?

Et meme

_Si j'ai ma photo_

_Dans tous les journaux_

_Chaque semaine_

The photoshoots, the interviews, the articles. I'm famous. And I didn't even do anything. Hey, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't there thousands of girls out there just _dying_ to be famous? Well then, ladies. Try being ridiculously rich, for a start. And pretty. Then just stand there smiling sweetly. You'll get famous.

And I guarantee you'll live to regret it.

Personne

_Ne m'attend le soir_

_Quand je rentre tard_

_Personne ne fait batter mon coeur _

_Lorsque s'eteigneint les projecteurs_

Mine is the perfect family.

Yeah right.

They get along okay, but I'm shunned. Cut off. Unless I'm "needed" of course.

But we all pose (for the cameras) It's good for business. So when the photographers and managers are gone, I'm alone. I've taught myself to play knucklebones. And gotten pretty good at it, too. I get a lot of time to practice.

Helene

_Je m'appelle Helene_

_Je suis une fille_

_Comme les autres_

I used to have friends. Before any of the stuff that rules my life now mattered. I'm charismatic. People flock around me.

Then conflict came up. People moved away. People had fights. People grew apart. More people, new ones, came. But by that time it was too late.

I had one friend left.

I have one friend.

She's my cousin—Penelope. Just like the Other Helen. She taught me everything I know. She takes me shopping. We hole ourselves up in her room afterwards and model everything for each other, giggling freely.

It's so much more fun to model for a friend than for a crowd of critics.

Je voudrais trouver l'amour

_Simplement trouver l'amour_

And so my secret wishes go unattended—ignored. Except for when I'm with Penelope, playing with the Ouija board.

"Who loves Helen?" She askes.

"_Paris._" It answered. We laugh.

Et meme

_Quand a la tele_

_Vous me regardez_

_Sourire et chanter_

Fake.

That's what my life is now. As fake as the faces on many of my co-workers.

Because I've started on television. First it was interviews. Now it's commercials. For cosmetics. And clothes.

I hate them.

Hate make-up.

Hate fashion.

Someday, I want to run through the forest, barefoot and naked. I could scream like a banshee and no one would care.

Persone

_Ne m'attend le soir_

_Quand je rentre tard_

_Personne ne fait batter mon coeur_

_Lorsque s'eteignent les projecteurs._

I probably could, too. I bet no one would notice. Not unless I was _needed._ Not unless there were reporters watching.

I can here my name. I'm being summoned.

I descend the stairs slowly, procrastinating. I wonder what it is this time.

My father is waiting for me. At his side is a man. Old, burly, proud-looking.

"Helen," The words echo in my mind, "This man is your fiancé. You will be married in a month."

Helene

_Je m'appelle Helene_

_Je suis une fille_

_Comme les autres_

We were married in a month. September first. It was a beautiful wedding—the advantageous joining of two powerful families.

The only problem? The groom.

I don't even want to say his name—I'll call him M.

And now I'm the one acting. For the reporters.

"Are you happy?" – "Oh, yes." Are you _serious?_

"Do you love your new husband" – "I wasn't certain at first—I was so young. But he's certainly grown on me." NOT.

Stupid questions. Untruthful answers.

Did I mention that it's been six years? It has.

I'm older. Changed. I have a daughter. I named her Hermione. In hope. Or dreams. Hermione—the _other_ Helen's daughter. M didn't object. He doesn't care. About me. Or our daughter. Or our life. I think sometimes that he is a perfect clone of my father. They must be close to the same age.

_Helene_

_Et toutes mes peins_

_Trouverons obli_

_Un jour ou l'autre_

I live in another world now. An imaginary one. I find it easier.

I spend most of my time in the with Hermione. I usually even sleep in her room. We spend our days in the gardens, where I fill her quickly growing mind with tales of our namesakes. And their heroes. And enemies.

In a week, on our anniversary, she will go away to school. I don't know what I will do with myself, then. I can't imagine it—locked inside all day with only M and countless silent servants for company.

It's the day. Our anniversary. Hermione just left me, for several years. I'm alone now, and I've locked myself in the nursery.

Finally, someone—a servant—knocks on the door, "Helen, ma'am, there's a visitor her, wanting to see you."

I come back to this world long enough to ask, "Is there a name to be had?"

And hear the answer. I'm hoping it might be Penelope, come to see me for the first time in three years. I haven't seen much of her since she was married. Father wasn't delighted—he isn't very rich. But he's moderately well off, and they are very much in love. The have a son, too, who he agreed to name, reluctantly, Telemachus. I smile at the thought. He's a beautiful boy, with a smile and determination in his eyes.

But hers is not the name that comes, "His name is Paris, ma'am. He has come from abroad to visit you and your husband."  
I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching. "Paris?" I ask, managing to hold back an unruly laugh of hope and joy, "What an interesting name. I'll be out in a moment.

I spend a few minutes selecting a simple, flattering dress and, after much deliberation, decide against makeup, choosing instead my natural beauty.

So I bite my lips. Pinch my cheeks. Straighten my skirt.

Smile.

And open the door.

This should be interesting.

Potentially disastrous.

And I look forward to it with an eagerness I have never felt as I descend our winding staircase and enter the front parlor to greet our guest.

He grins, stretching out his arms for me, "Helen."

I already know him, I swear I do. I take his hands. "Paris. How do you do?"

Quand je trouverais l'amour

_Quand je trouverais l'amour_

END

**::sigh….:: **

**I love greek myths, don't you just? Tell me what you think. **

**Merci,**

**Seiina**


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